Words, Like A Pulmonary Disease Poem by Mark Heathcote

Words like a pulmonary disease
Can never soothe my heart
Like scalpels in the wrong hands
They are lethal weapons with deadly garb.
But occasionally, my lungs are lifted
And butterfly wings hover in the air
And like darts hit a bulls-eye centre square.

In the right hands, words they are
Electric, fantastic, bombastic, sarcastic
Each syllabic footnote walks across my soul.
Just like footprints, smoothed over
They are digested, like a well-made profiterole
My hunger for these words never wanes
I guess that's why I devour quatrains.